Blurred Lines
by Fic Fairy
Summary: "You never used to hate me." Daggers may be drawn in 2015, but back in the 90s it was a very different story, and sometimes our past comes back to haunt us...
1. Chapter 1

She's unravelling, and it's not pleasant to watch. It's never easy to see anyone struggling, but where I'm concerned, Connie isn't just 'anyone'. We have history. We go back an incredibly long way. Not that either of us would see fit to admit it.

I want to help her, God knows I do, but somehow it's just not that easy. I've tried reaching out to her, just gently, subtly, but although she occasionally allows me to say my piece, she doesn't let me get close, keeping me at arms length, retreating into her own private world where she obviously feels safest.

But that world isn't private. Not by any stretch of the imagination, the evidence is there for all to see. She's not coping professionally, and her private life, which is obviously a mess, is playing itself out publicly. I fail to see how much more she can take.

Which is why, although it's the end of my shift, and by rights I ought to be heading home to Dylan and the dog, I just can't do it. I brace myself, head to her office – once my own – and tap on the door.

There's no response, but I know she's inside, so I try again, knocking harder; still no response. I take a deep breath and grab the bull by the horns, turning the handle and letting myself in. The scene that greets me comes as no real surprise. It's been coming for a long time.

She's sat at her desk, head in hands; her shoulders shaking as tears wrack her body. I consider walking away, knowing how much she'd hate being seen in such a state, but I think better of it. I've kept my distance long enough.

I move across the room to stand behind her, and then, slowly so as not to startle her, place my hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. She stiffens, obviously surprised in the first instance by the intimacy of the gesture, but then I feel her relax as her tears subside, and without turning to look at me, she murmurs, "You still wear Chanel No 5. I hadn't noticed before."

"Some habits are pretty hard to break."

She takes in my words, and then turns her head to glance at my hand on her shoulder, raising her eyes and giving me a wry smile, "So I see..."

xxx

It's the last month of 1992. The Bodyguard has just been released, so that song appears to be on an endless loop wherever I go. In a direct contradiction Charles and Diana have just split; a definite case of I will not always love you. The nicotine patch has just hit the chemist shelves, and, although they cost a fortune and I'm a poor student, I'm already wearing one, determined to be rid of the evil weed that has been my Achilles heel since the age of thirteen.

I'm eighteen now, and in my first year at University. Nearly one semester down, and so far so good. Medical school is basically A Level Biology with bells on, and I'm loving every single minute of it.

If there's one slight blot on the otherwise very happy landscape it's my accommodation arrangements. Stupidly, and irresponsibly, I was too busy partying over the summer to confirm my place in halls and am paying the price now by being stuck in a shared house with three third year performing arts students, a right load of luvvies, and a lone fifth year medic who presumably was as disorganised as me. I'd been pretty excited about living with another medical student to begin with, imagining that she'd be an elder stateswoman and mentor who would take me under her wing and introduce me to other older medics, but that fantasy was pretty much dispelled on the day we moved in when she disappeared into her room and hasn't really come out since. The Luvvies call her The Ice Queen and the Invisible Woman, and I'm not inclined to disagree.

All the same, I keep myself busy, partying and working hard in equal measures, spending more time on campus than I do at the house, ensuring that my interactions with the Drama and Ice Queens are kept to a minimum. The addition of a male friend with benefits halfway through November only improved the situation further still; now I have another bed to sleep in too.

Things change the afternoon of the Medics Christmas – 'hilariously' named – Snow Ball. I've bunked off afternoon lectures, determined to beat the Luvvies to what precious little hot water we have, knowing its Friday night and they're bound to be going out too. I fly through the back door, into our communal kitchen, and that's where I find her, sat at the table, crying her eyes out. My first thought is to try and sneak past without her seeing but she must sense my presence and looks up before I can. I don't know who's more embarrassed, me or her.

Her cheeks flaming red she gathers the significant number of used tissues in front of her on the table and jams them in the pockets of the surgical scrubs she's wearing, before looking back up at me awkwardly. She looks pensive for a second, obviously pondering whether to say anything, and I'm somewhat surprised when she does, "I'm on maternity at the moment. We lost a mother and baby today." She's stutters slightly as she explains, clearly still emotional, "You know how it is."

I don't. As a mere first year, not even 3 months in, I've not been let loose on patients yet, but I can imagine how I'd feel under the circumstances. No one ever said being a doctor would be easy.

I want to get going, still thinking about the steaming hot, well semi warm, shower and the look I'm going to create for tonight. But first year or not, I'm a medic too, and one day I might be in her shoes, and no doubt then I'd appreciate someone being nice to me. So instead of heading for the bathroom and my heated rollers I flick the kettle on, and then sit at the table with her.

"Wanna talk about it?"

She looks for a second like she has all term, keen to ignore me, but then, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit she starts to talk,

"Mum was admitted with a previously undiagnosed murmur. We had to operate so we had to deliver. Baby wasn't due until Valentines Day."

I did the maths.

"There was never much hope then?"

She shrugs, looking like she might burst into tears again at any moment, "Try telling the father that."

Her words could be rhetorical but I sense not, and once again I put myself in her shoes, "You had to tell him?"

She nods, "My House Officer is a bastard. Any opportunity to make me suffer. He made me tell him that wife had bled out on the table too. Talk about the double whammy."

All thoughts of making a pot of tea disappear from my mind at her words, knowing the a PG Tips is going to be of very little comfort to her under the circumstances. Instead I get to my feet again and disappear up to my room, returning soon afterward with a bottle of vodka which I open, and slosh liberally - in the absence of any clean glasses in our disgusting student kitchen - into a couple of mugs before pushing the larger measure of the two into her hands. She eyes it suspiciously,

"No mixer?" I go to respond but before I can her face breaks into a wry smile and she chuckles slightly, "No, of course not. You're a first year."

"Oh stop being a patronising snob and get it down you." The words trip off my tongue before I can stop them, and I wince instantly, fearing she won't hear the humour in my voice and think I'm just being an obnoxious bitch, but to my surprise her smile widens and then she necks the spirit without further comment.

"Better?" I ask, and she helps herself to another measure by way of an answer. She necks that too then looks at the bottle, a pensive look on her face, as if she's pondering swiping another. I'm not too bothered, I'll be back home ransacking my parents Christmas booze in a few days but I'm unconvinced that another one would be the best course of action for her, especially since...

"Keep that up and you'll be passed out in your dinner at the ball tonight."

She shakes her head dismissively, "I'm not going."

I can see why she'd not be in the mood, but Snow Balls come but once a year, and besides that, as I gently chide her, "Ah come on, you've paid 35 quid for the privilege, you can't let the ticket go to waste."

She shakes her head again, "I don't have a ticket. I never intended to go."

"Never intended to go?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice, "This is THE medical social of the year. You have to come." And I do think she has to, genuinely; I'm not leaving her at home, crying into my neat vodka when there's fun to be had.

She grimaces, "It's awkward, Zoe, and besides, like I said, I don't have a ticket."

I have no idea what's so awkward about a night of dancing and drinking, and that moment in time I don't need to know; the clock is ticking, and she - and I - need to be upstairs getting our glad rags on before the not so teenage drama queens get home. That said, whatever her problems are, I have the answer to at least one of them.

"No need to worry about a ticket. I'm on the ball committee; I can squeeze you onto my table."

xxx

She doesn't argue and so, a couple of hours later I'm knocking on the door to the room she's made her prison (the ice palace as it's known behind her back), frock on, hair looking tremendous with a bottle of lemon Hooch in each hand. She tells me to come in, which is massive progress given the fact the room has been off limits all term and I head inside, curious to see what it looks like and hoping that she's managed to find herself a dress to wear.

I needn't have worried. She has, and she looks phenomenal.

It's quite a shock actually. After a term of seeing her either in scrubs or jeans and sloppy jumpers the sudden sight of her really rather amazing figure clad in tight fitting navy blue crushed velvet is something of a revelation. Her usual messy ponytail has gone too, twisted into an elegant chignon, with loose curls framing her face. She looks tremendous and I find myself more in awe of her than I have all term.

"Connie," I say, as I step further into the room, "you look stunning. Your dress is beautiful. Where did you get it? It looks designer."

She smiles slightly at my compliments, "It is designer. Westwood."

I can't hide my surprise, unable to work out how a girl with no part time job, and pretty average parents if her south London accent is anything to go by, has been able to afford such a dress, and more to the point, if she can, what the hell is she doing living in some grotty student house instead of a flat of her own. She must sense my confusion though, because she quickly explains,

"It was a gift. From a boyfriend." Even her perfectly applied make up can't hide the fact that her cheeks flush red at the word 'boyfriend' but I presume he must be a thing of the past since I've not seen sight nor sound of any such thing in our house during the last three months. I wonder if that's the nature of the 'awkward' and her earlier refusal to go to The Ball.

"Did he take you to the Snow Ball last year?" I ask, hoping she doesn't find my question too intrusive.

She gives me a wry smile, "It would have been awkward if he had." Before I can ask any further questions she nods in the direction of her dressing table and I move over to it, taking a few moments to work out what it is I'm meant to be looking at before my gaze eventually lands on an article from a medical journal, stuck on the mirror, a photo of its author under the byline.

"That's Anton Meyer." I murmur, still not really getting it. "He's got legendary status on campus, apparently he's an amazing lecturer but he left at the end of last year to take up a fellowship in the

States." I wrack my brains trying to remember a tidbit of gossip I heard in the union, "Word is he was forced to take it though because he was sleeping with a student at this end."

Suddenly, I get it, and the words die on my lips before I find some new ones,

"Shit. That was you."

She smiles the smile again and nods slowly, "Yeah. That was me."

Suddenly, I feel awkward and naive and every inch the unworldly eighteen year old that I am. I've only just been let out of my parent's house for the first time and she's ridiculously grown up, sleeping with a man old enough to be both our Dads who no doubt has a wife to boot.

I try to act cool, try to think of clever response but fail miserably and instead find the contents of her dressing table ludicrously interesting,

"Wow." I say, picking up a much sought after perfume bottle, "you've got real Chanel No 5. I can only afford the hookey stuff off the market."

She shrugs, "Well help yourself. In fact, keep it. He got it for me, and wearing it only reminds me he's gone..."


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you ever see anything of Anton?" I ask, trying to diffuse the awkward silence that has taken hold of her office. It's not what we're meant to be talking about, but given the stubborn look on her face I don't think she's about to confide in me anytime soon, at least not without the assistance of the several glasses of wine I'm planning to shove down her throat if I can extract her from the hospital and get her into the nearest pub.

She smiles slightly, which seems like progress if nothing else, "Occasionally." She pauses briefly, and I know from the look on her face that she's weighing up whether to tell me any more. It's good to see that look, and know that she hasn't quite forgotten the fact I used to be a good friend; someone she could talk to, and our shared history must win out because eventually she speaks again, "He took me out to dinner when I was last in the States, then took me home and screwed me all night long." Her smile widens, almost playfully, "He's still got it."

I sit down opposite her, building on the 'girlie chat' vibe which is diffusing the awkwardness nicely,

"No thoughts about a permanent reconciliation?"

She shakes her head, "He's a good friend but," she sighs, "no. Too much water. Too many bridges. And I'm not sure he'd tolerate my daughter."

The mention of Grace is the 'in' I need, the perfect opportunity to get her to talk, but I don't want to push her too hard or fast and run the risk of her clamming up again. So instead I finally make my move and suggest we go for a drink, but sadly she's quick to foil my plan.

"I can't. It's the Nanny's night off, and since she's lasted an unprecedented 3 weeks and 2 days I would like to keep her sweet." It's a good excuse, although I'm miffed that having put in all the ground work she's now managing to wiggle out of my clutches, but, I'm surprised seconds later when she makes another suggestion.

"You want me to come back to yours?"

She shrugs, "Why not? Grace will be in bed soon, and I've got drink in." She grins, "And I promise not to make you drink Scotch..."

xxx

New Years Eve, 1992. I've abandoned my plans to stay at home until the New Year on account of the fact that having lived away from home for three months, my parents were driving me mad long before we'd even reached Christmas Day. I arrive back at uni hoping to hook up with 'the boy' to celebrate the arrival of 1993 and am sorely disappointed to discover that he's got a ticket to a sold out techno gig.

But no matter, because, as it turns out, I'm not the only one back at the house. In fact, Connie seems to have been there for most of festive period, by all accounts moping around in her pyjamas, eating mince pies, generally feeling sorry for herself.

Feeling sorry for herself, is, as she informed me the night of the Snow Ball, something she's been doing for the last term and all of the Summer that went before it. Hence all the unsociable behaviour and the ice maiden act. Truth be known, Connie Chase is a long way from an ice maiden. She's just a girl who lost her first love and doesn't know how to handle it.

Which is why I've decided she is not getting away with locking herself in her room on New Years Eve. And she's going to enjoy herself whether she likes it or not.

I am meeting her half way, and have agreed we can stay in rather than go out. She's not keen on the social scene in our small university town and having seen the looks she got from some of the older medics at the ball I can understand why. Apparently shagging a lecturer doesn't make you particularly popular.

And so, I've raided Bargain Booze, ordered a takeaway, and now, I'm sat on my own waiting for madam to make an appearance. When she eventually appears, she's modelling a much worn pair of scrubs - previously not her own, I've discovered - has red blotchy eyes and is clutching a bottle of whisky to her chest.

I glare at her, albeit playfully, "I said 7. It's 7.23." She mumbles an apology and I quickly put the pieces together, "Harvard calling?"

She nods, curling up on the sofa, clearly fighting back tears. I move and sit beside her, and reach for her hand. She resists at first, as she is generally inclined to do, but when she finally gives in and lets me take it, I see that as my cue,

"What did he have to say?"

"He wanted to wish me a Happy New Year. And," her voice cracks slightly, a suggestion that a further breaking down of the dam might be imminent, "he said the New Year would be a good opportunity for me to make a fresh start. Meet someone new."

Ouch. Direct to the point of cruelty. I squeeze her hand, "You were holding out hope that he'd come back for you?"

She looks bashful, "I thought there might be a plane ticket with my name on it after graduation." She gestures to the bottle of whisky she's placed on the coffee table, "He sent me that for Christmas, I thought it was a sign we'd get to drink it together."

Her naivety astounds me; for someone four years my senior she's got the romantic sensibilities of a 13 year old in love with New Kids On The Block, but I can't help feeling sorry for her. I know from talking to her that Anton Meyer turned her world upside down before disappearing off to the States leaving her to pick up the pieces professionally and emotionally.

I reach for the bottle and read the label but having never drunk Scotch it doesn't mean a lot to me, "What is this?"

She sighs, "About £50 a bottle, that's what that is. It's a good year." The bashful look again, "He taught me about more than just cardiothoracic surgery and sex. Do you want one?"

Never one to say no to alcohol, I slosh a hearty measure into a tumbler and knock it back in one, nearly choking myself with the unfamiliar taste and quite frankly unpleasant burning sensation in my throat. When I recover, it's to find Connie pissing herself laughing which quite frankly makes a pleasant change from the tears, although I glare at her all the same, "What's so fucking funny?"

"You. Drinking a fine single malt like its a pint of lager. Don't be such a pleb. You're meant to savour it."

"Savour it, my arse." I retort, pour a second measure and then drown it in coke.

She grimaces, "Zoe. Anton would have a fit if he saw you drinking that like that. It's sacrilege."

"Anton's not bloody here." I tell her, then feel slightly guilty as I realise she really didn't need that pointing out, "Besides which," I plough on, keen to change the subject and get the kicked puppy look off of her face, "It's not sacrilege. It's self preservation."

xxx

To be honest, the grand Coke plan didn't preserve me terribly well, and I wake the following morning with the hangover from hell, on the living room floor with my head wedged under the coffee table. From what I can recall, a good time was had by all, and my fledging friendship with Connie had been well and truly cemented with an evening of truth or dare, a line dancing based version of Auld Lang Syne, and far far too much alcohol.

Not that I'd have known it to look at my new best friend who far from looking all 'morning after the night before', is wide awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed, doing the washing up in the kitchen when I eventually summon up the energy to go and find her.

She beams when she sees me, which is slightly disconcerting although more so heartening after living with the slightly more sulky version of her for the last three months. That said, nothing is as disconcerting as what she utters next,

"I'm glad you're up. Go get changed. We're going out. It's hair of the dog time."

I don't think so. Neither does my stomach. It lurches. Violently. I try to protest but Connie's having none of it.

"No arguments. None at all. You're coming." She smiles, almost dangerously it seems, "it's a tradition."

And so, I go, like a little lamb following Bo Peep, not even bothering to question the nature of this tradition until she's walked me and my hangover to the other end of town to a high end wine bar where most students couldn't afford a glass of tap water, and placed a glass of what looks suspiciously like tomato soup in front of me. I look at her questioningly, "What is this?"

She sips her own drink, eyeing my like I'm an unsophisticated child who knows nothing, and then tells me in a withering tone, "It's a Bloody Mary. We drank them last New Years Day."

It doesn't take Einstein to work out who 'we' is, nor to reach the conclusion that if I'm any kind of half decent friend I'm going to have to humour her. So, still eyeing the drink with trepidation, I pick up the glass, but before I taste it there's one condition I'm keen to share.

"Fine. I'll drink your putrid looking drink, probably at a serious cost to the health and wellbeing of my liver. But keep this in mind Miss Chase, I am not," I let my serious tone drop and flash her a grin, "I repeat not, going to sleep with you."

xxx

By the time I finish with this latest wave of nostalgia, I'm pulling up outside Connie's house, having followed her there in my car. I've not been there before, obviously, but it nice, nicer than a draughty houseboat anyway.

I get out, lock up and head up the path to where Connie's fiddling with the key in the lock. She looks nervous and as I reach her, she stops, and looks at me awkwardly,

"Grace might not take this too well, you being with me. She gets a bit resentful if I have guests. Doesn't like sharing me." Her vulnerability shows through more than ever and 18 year old me gets the urge to reach out and hug her, but I resist, my grown up self knowing she probably won't appreciate it. Instead I just smile reassuringly, "It'll be ok. She can have you until bedtime, I'll just sit in a corner and get slowly sloshed."

She smiles then, and for the first time in the last year she looks like the girl I met back in the day, the one who was so grateful for my companionship and support. It's progress and fills me with hope that Operation Get Connie To Talk might actually be successful.

In any event, there's no issue with Grace. She seems as delighted to see me as she does Connie and the three of us end up hitting the Wii for several rounds of very competitive bowling.

Eventually though, it's bedtime, and with Connie upstairs settling Grace, I find myself alone in the living room. I pour myself another glass of wine and then find my attention caught by a photo album lying on the coffee table, a telling box of tissues sat beside it.

I reach for it, and flick it open, half expecting the contents to be as they are based on its appearance but still slightly surprised to see them. I'm still battling that surprise and flicking through the pages when Connie reappears, and it's hard to miss the pink tinge to her cheeks when she sees what I'm looking at.

"I'm surprised you've not burnt this." I glance down at the page I'm on, Connie looking stunning in an antique lace wedding dress, and the man I nicknamed Slimy M wrapped round her like particularly clingy octopus tentacle.

She shrugs, sitting beside me and topping up her glass, "Oh you know me. Never did find it easy to let a man go. Look what I was like with Anton."

I laugh, "Yeah, but Anton was Anton, that was understandable, this," I prod Michael's face with more aggression I thought was possible given the fact I'd not seen the moron for years, "low life you're better off without. He's an arsehole, Connie. He always was."

She's silent for a few moments, and I wonder if I've gone too far, but then she smiles and even if I have pushed my luck I realise I've now been forgiven. She reaches out, taking the book from me looking down at her ex husband with an expression encompassing lust, frustration and general amusement.

"Of course he was an arsehole, Zoe. That was all part of his charm."


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a while, but eventually I convince Connie that her former Sugar Daddy might have had a point, and that potentially it could be time to move on. It's not an idea she buys into easily but by the end of of January I at least get her to agree to a night out on the pull.

The student union is out of the question of course, instead Connie suggests a pub near the hospital where she's on placement, meeting me there at the end of her shift. I half expect her to rock up in scrubs, or jeans and sweatshirt, but she pleasantly surprises me, arriving in a leather pencil skirt and a tight shirt that leaves little to the imagination. She looks sensational, and if she's after some action I doubt it would take much further effort to get it.

It's early on Friday night, and things in the 'Stethoscope and Scalpel' are yet to liven up, so we settle in a booth and exchange notes about our respective days. She's moved on from obs and gynie and is currently on a six week placement in an A&E department which sounds like my idea of heaven. I on the other hand am still stuck in the classroom and had spent half the day taking fake patient histories from some grubby little git on my course who is trying to get into my pants and thinks that bringing his past sexual conquests into every history was a clever way of doing it. The other half of the day consisted of sitting in the driest medical ethics lecture ever, a fact I am quick to lament. As I do so Connie smiles a wry smile that begs for an explanation, one that when asked, she's all too happy to give,

"I don't know what it is about ethics lecturers that makes them so uninspiring. I felt like you did back in the day, but then," her smile becomes a little more wicked, "Anton came along. He made ethical debates interesting. He made them into foreplay."

I light a cigarette and pull a face at her, "Too much information, Chase. Way too much." But actually her former relationship fascinates me. I've only had one - allegedly - serious boyfriend and that was when I was 14, and Mr Friends With Benefits remains just that. What she had seems so much more intense than anything I've experienced and that's even without taking into account the fact he was a lecturer and so much older.

All the same though, I see it as my duty to take her mind off of him, especially since we're out looking to for someone to step into his shoes.

Just as I'm thinking as much I become aware of a presence at my side and realise that we have company.

"Bloody Hell, Miss Chase. Where did you hide those when we were working together?"

I look at the - loosely termed - gentleman beside me, following his boggle eyed gaze to Connie's cleavage then glance up to her face which is looking a long way from happy. She rolls her eyes at me, and then somewhat reluctantly makes the introductions,

"Zoe, this is Michael Beauchamp. We worked Obs and Gynie together. He was the House Officer I worked under."

The creep leers at her in a way I suspect is meant to be charming, "You'd have been doing a damn sight more than working under me if you'd dressed like that on the ward."

Connie just rolls her eyes at the line, but I've heard enough, particularly since I've put the pieces together and worked out exactly who the jerk is,

"What makes you think she'd sleep with you, especially after the stunt you pulled before Christmas; making her tell that bloke his wife and baby were dead. Some Christmas bonus that was!"

He looks unimpressed, "It's part of the job sweetheart, sooner she learns that the better, and as for your first comment, I doubt she'd turn me down, word is that she likes an older man, especially one from higher up the food chain"

I don't see how Connie responds to his words, I'm too busy seeing red, and before I know what I'm doing, my glass is in my hand and seconds later its contents are showering themselves all over Michael.

Before he can react or I can apologise, although I maintain to this day that he got what he deserved, I hear Connie smother a giggle beside me, then she gets to her feet, taking me by the hand and pulling me out of the booth.

"Come on trouble. I think we should get out before we're thrown out."

We head towards the exit, without another word to the coke covered idiot behind us, but I can't help but notice that for all her haste to get me out of the pub, Connie stops at the doorway for one last long lingering look at Michael.

And that was where the trouble began.

xxx

"Connie," I look at her questioningly, "really? He had charm? Do you not recall the night I met him?"

She sips her wine, a playful smile on her lips, "I remember the way his shirt clung to his torso after you'd drenched him in vodka and coke. He really did have the most incredible body in those days. Hell, what am I saying," she adds, "he probably still does."

I find her loyalty incredible, yet typical of her, given all she's forgiven Michael of in the past. And she's obviously still pining for him if the photo album and tissues are anything to go by. Of all the things I expected her to tell me this evening, that wasn't one of them.

"You miss him?"

She shrugs, pulling her knees up, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on top. It's a sitting position I recognise all too well from our misspent youth. She uses it when she's at her most vulnerable, as if huddling up to protect herself from the outside world. It's disconcerting to see it being displayed by the grown woman she's become, but actually, compared to the anger and striking out coping mechanisms she's been using of late, it's a big improvement.

I slide closer to her, place my hand on the small of her back, rubbing it gently. She neither comments or complains. In fact she says nothing at all.

"Talk to me, babe. You always used to."

There is a moment of silence, and then a stifled sob and finally I get what I came for.

"I don't miss him. Not really. It's just been kind of tough lately, with Grace acting up and the ridiculous thing with the Blake woman, and it's hard, not having anyone to turn to. Not having anyone to fight my corner with the Board."

I cut in then, I can't help myself, keen to clear up something that I've been wondering about for a while, "No one? Not even Guy?"

My actual question is only implied but she gets it straight away, laughing slightly and pulling a face, "God no! Please, Zoe, credit me with a modicum of taste. He's tried to cop a feel once or twice, but that's where it ends." She shudders, "What a disgusting thought."

Her answer pleases me. After the way the creep installed her in my department and then promoted her so easily I had long held the concern that some kind of sexual nepotism had been involved. I mean don't get me wrong, I know she can look after herself and any kind of sexual based manipulation would have been entirely on her terms but I don't like to think of her being in the headspace where she would sink so low to get what she wanted. She must see my relief because she looks at me curiously,

"Would it have bothered you, if I had been there?"

I open my mouth to tell her yes, that the thought of Guy Self crawling around on top of her makes me feel sick to the stomach, not so much because of the mental images but because of my concern for her wellbeing, but somehow I can't let the words come; I can't admit to caring that much. So instead I just, grin, shrug and make light of it.

"Not particularly. Let's face it, you've always had crap taste in men."

xxx

"I'm sorry? You're going where? With whom?"

I've just got in from another 'fun' ethics lecture, and am in stood in Connie's bedroom. She's modelling a dressing gown, perfectly coffered curls, and a sheepish expression. I, I note from glancing in the mirror, have a face like thunder.

Understandably.

It's two weeks after our night out, which resulted in no pulling but two horrific hangovers, and Connie has just announced to me that she's going out on a date. With Michael Beauchamp. Taking which into account makes the sheepish look completely bloody necessary.

Awkwardness joins her embarrassment, "He found me in the staff canteen. He apologised for the jibe about Anton. He's really nice."

Recalling our earlier meeting I draw the conclusion that Michael Beauchamp isn't nice at all. At the very least he's clearly got no idea how to talk to a woman. Speaking of which,

"Did he apologise to you? Or did he apologise to your breasts, because as I recall, it was only them he was capable of addressing the last time."

She sighs, her awkwardness growing more apparent with every second. She turns away from me and heads over to her wardrobe, speaking her next words to it, rather than me, "I knew you'd be like this. That's why I didn't tell you."

I sit down on her bed, looking around the room I've come to know so well, taking in all the trinkets, photos and memories of her relationship with Anton that surround me. His shirt on her pillow that she wears to sleep in, a dried flower from a bouquet he bought her, much loved jewellery on her dressing table. On one hand I'm glad that she's making an attempt at moving on, but somehow a date with Michael Beauchamp seems akin to jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Connie," I say softly, gently, making a serious attempt at a non confrontational approach, "I just don't want you to get hurt again."

She's silent for a few seconds, then selects two dresses from her wardrobe and turns back round to face me, biting her bottom lip nervously, "Zoe, I don't want to fall out with you, and I know you're just looking out for me, but it's only dinner and drinks. Plus I'm a big girl, I can look after myself."

Nights and nights of her crying herself to sleep would tend to contradict that, but I don't want to argue with her anymore than she seems to want to argue with me, so instead I reach for a tissue from the box on her bedside table and wave it at her white flag style. She finally smiles and holds out the two dresses in her hands for my inspection, "Which do you think?"

I survey them. One clearly a gift from Anton, all designer labels and chic sophistication. The other is red, clingy and would leave nothing to the imagination.

"If it's genuinely JUST dinner and drinks," I tell her, "The one on the left. But,". I try and keep my tone light to hide my ongoing concern, "if you're looking to get laid, my money's on red."

She glances down at the dresses, then holds each in front of her, clearly weighing up her choices.

"What time is he picking you up?" I ask, wondering how long the indecision can go on for.

"7.15." The words have barely left her lips when there's an ominous knock at the door. I glance at my watch. It's 6.45. I look at her questioningly, "Really? I mean there's being punctual, and there's being rudely early."

She groans, a desperate expression on her face, understandably given the bathrobe / no dress combination she's currently modelling. "Zoe..." It comes out pleadingly, leaving me with no doubt as to what's coming next, "could you get the door?"

He knocks again and I leave the room muttering dark and evil things, not relishing opening the door to a man I last saw whilst dousing him with alcoholic beverages and cursing Connie for putting me in the predicament.

As he knocks, a third time, I yank open the front door to find him there, about to knock for a fourth. He's clutching an exceptionally large bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of champagne hideously pretentiously - in the other.

"You're early." I inform him, before turning on heel and walking into the living room, not really caring if he follows or not. He does, thick skinned, upper class twat that he is. I curl up on the couch, but don't invite him to do likewise, leaving him just standing there for a few seconds before telling him that Connie is still getting ready.

He smiles at me, which is a little disconcerting in the face of my prize bitch impression and splits his massive bouquet into two, revealing it's actually two smaller bunch of flowers.

"I know I'm early. I knew she'd still be getting ready. I wanted to spend some time with you." He hands me one of the bunches of flowers, "I want to apologise. I behaved very badly when we met, and I don't blame you at all for the action you took. In fact, I thought it was admirable. Connie is very lucky to have such a loyal and protective friend."

I glance from him, amazed by this sudden turn around and paragon of virtue act, to my newly acquired spray of orchids and lilies, trying to find an appropriate response. I can't find one. This is not how college boys behave, therefore it's more than a little outside my comfort zone. I mumble a thank you, and then he hands me the bottle of champagne as well, much to my continued surprise.

"Our table isn't booked until 8." He explains, "I thought we could share a drink together. Start afresh."

Taking the bottle I awkwardly excuse myself, disappearing into our atypical student kitchen. There's not a chance in hell of me finding champagne flutes, in fact, even a hope of wine glasses is pushing it. Eventually I settle on a glass tumbler, a Minnie Mouse mug and a martini glass that had made its way from a dodgy cocktail bar to Connie's handbag on our last night out. I return to the living room, and if he's surprised by what I've assembled, Michael doesn't let it show, instead opening the champagne and pouring it in to my dodgy collection of vestibules.

Amusingly he retains the Minnie Mouse mug for himself, leaves the tumbler on the coffee table and hands the martini glass to me. He then holds the mug up and makes a toast,

"To new starts. And new friends."

I clink my glass against Minnie's face, mumbling slightly, still a little thrown by his behaviour as a whole. He's acting nice enough, but I'm still sceptical, especially after our initial meeting, and I still suspect Connie is biting off more than she can chew.

A fact which is proven a few minutes later when she enters the room.

Wearing the red dress.

xxx


End file.
